The Portland daily press., 1887-12-26


CHRoNos.
A king when ancient Britain ruled the brine.
TRIBUNE.
And is his story thine ideal of news?
CHRoNos.
At first thought the poem to refuse.
TRIBUNE.
But now wouldst-scoop it from beneath the sea.
cHRoNos.
Even as the sea-sands In mine hand shall be
The many words which make the story shine
OF the old sin and sorrow Of Locrine.
Yea, though the dolorous dollars that give
Be more than any man may count, and live
Before the Sun shall bring to light line,
The Times will tell the story of Locrine.
PHGBUs.
Thy nature is bourgeois and commonplace.
I cHRoNos.
Minion, thou art a nonpareil and full face.
TRIBUNE.
Cease from these fruitess words of scornful strife
Sun, how should any battle for his life
Against the strength allied of Times and Sea-,
For whom the lightning shall bear embassy
On wings more swift than those which speed tn,
hours?
However, the affair is none of ours.
Yea, fight it out among yourselves, but we
Laugh and we sharpen pencils while we laugh
That see occasion for paragraph.
PHGBUs.
Methinks the Times hath no great fortune found
1 sing the tragedy passed round and round:
"Had wis., quoth the Sun to Dana,
'That Times could afford to insist
On cabling across the main
Poem of such extent,
No money of ours had been spent,
had offered the Muse not cent,
Had / visit"
'Had visit, o Sum-" said Dana,
"That Locrine would never be missed
Though our columns should not contain
Reprint of its tragic plot,
For the play ]. had bargained not,
Nor paid dime for the lot,
Had wist."
cHRoNos.
That song is hardly even as wise as 1.
Nay, very foolishness it is to cry
Over spilled milk whereon shall never cream
Arise to verify vanished dream.
Are newsboys sad when there is naught to haloa,
follow
In next days paper.
Dost thou understand.
Child, what the press is saying?
CHRoNos
All the land
Knows that. The editors pen his mind expresses
Then the compositor man of sand
Before his case takes copy in his hand
Setting the type; the proof-reader redresses
Wrongs Of misprint whereof no writer blesses
The intelligent compositor-who can stand
To see his article so spoiled that guesses
Are vain to seek the sense the words enfold?
The stereotype, a lettered metal mould,
Lies underneath the rollers Of the press,
And the strong monster with an iron hold
Clutches an endless length of paper unrolled,
And sets thereon OF the days deeds the impress
Black record on its blank white spaciousness.
TRIBUNE.
What gives.thy fancy speech thus OVERLOAD?
CHRoNos.
Why else, meseems, the Sun would hardly climb,
Or Times have means to typify the time.
MELPoMENE.
Chronos, what strange delusion blndeth thee?
Hast thou believed to bind the mighty Sea,
Make her pay tribute to the tyrant Times
And tune her Tyre to sing a tragedy
Unthanked and not requitedp- Nay but she
Hath shared thee as a fowler when he lines
The twigs for BIRDS or sets his feathered mines
To call their winged fellows from the tree,
Decoying them to ruin and death.
TRIBUNE.
What crimes
Doth she so punish, neither will forgive?
MELPoMENE.
That one should cheat her of her TOLL and live.
TRIBUNE.
What hast thou.done?
HELPoMEEE.
The thing came to do.
Behold, poem;hardly passes. through
The sharp division as of fire and sword
Set by the law between lord and lord
OF literature, who lack Of right the might
Not having international copyright.
Yet Algernon, the laureate Of the sea,
Shall not be left unholpen utterly:
The Sea hath served the Times; and yet hath no
The child, the poet of her praise, forgot,
And by mine hand her reckoning she hath sent
Two.thousand dollars.
cHRoNos.
Nayl
MELPoMENE.
Art not content?
CHRoNos.
am conquered; and this triumph THAT was min
Is fallen from out mine hands. Alas, Locrinel
MELPoMEYE.
Those newspapers are wise who will not print
Matter at length, whereof a briefer hint
Or abstract were enough; and they are wiser
Who yield their space untoithe advertiser
And are repaid. And yet most wise OF all
Are they whom Opportunity doth call
And they deny her not nor bid her walt,
Lest she returning, prove an angry Fate.
Though men, for envy Of thy brave deed done,
Say. advertising pays in the long run
Better than poems, yea than verse divine
Like this great tragedy Of Lord Locrine.
A royal sorrow crowned of kingly rhymes
Chronos, believe them not. Go, Sun and Times,
Forgiven. Long may my master, Algernon. live
A lord of song-and for songs sake-forgive!